by Adam Makos
“What now?” The gunny looked perturbed to see Red.
“The boys are talking.” Red shivered. “Is it true? The entire Chinese army’s coming?”
The gunny glanced at the officer, and the officer lowered his binoculars and turned toward Red. “We don’t know their numbers,” the officer said, “but there’s sizeable Chinese activity up and down the MSR—a whole mess of ’em.”
He was implying that the Chinese were moving to attack the column. Red gulped. Chinese attacking in daylight? he thought. This never happens.
The officer swept his binoculars across the crest and past the glaring faces. He scanned a massive ridge to the left that angled down toward the road. Snow squalls drifted across its folds. If the Chinese were there, the weather was hiding them. The officer rattled off coordinates, and his radio man notated his map.
Red recognized the lingo as flyboy-speak. The officer was not just any officer, he was a forward air controller. A FAC, as men like him were called, was a Marine pilot embedded with ground units to call in air strikes. At the Chosin, the rules of engagement stipulated that any air strike within three miles of friendly troops had to be coordinated by a FAC to prevent friendly fire.
Red glanced at the stormy sky above the crest. The clouds seemed to be thickening and growing more ominous. Red’s eyes welled up with concern. “Sir,” he said, “do you think our flyboys will get through this weather?”
The FAC kept his eyes glued to his binoculars. “Doubtful. Even the birds are walking today.”
Red glanced down, stunned. Ever since the creek bed, he’d clung to Devans’s words: If we stick together, we can’t be beaten. Red had bought into the rumors that the Marines would reach the base at Hagaru, spend the winter there, and then whip the Chinese in the spring. He glanced again at the column. The glorified wagon train was still crawling, likely destined for an ambush. Red shook his head with dismay.
Around him, the others remained quiet as snow flurries settled on their shoulders. They were the Lost Legion and they knew it.
Soon after, around 9 A.M. aboard the USS Leyte
With a throaty roar, Jesse’s Corsair began its takeoff roll down the wooden flight deck. Behind him, a violent backdraft buffeted Tom’s plane.
Tom toed the rudder pedals forward to hold the brakes. The wings shook as white smoke swirled into the open cockpit and filled Tom’s nostrils with the smell of oil. On the tower to Tom’s right, sailors and aviators held on to their hats.
Tom glanced past the whirling yellow-tipped propeller just in time to see Jesse’s Corsair leap from the deck. All three wheels of Jesse’s plane were in line with the horizon, by the book. Jesse banked rightward and climbed into a frosty blue sky where twelve Corsairs were assembling.
Tom’s heartbeat raced. The forward deck was clear—he was next. Waves slipped quickly past the carrier. The Leyte was steaming forward with all eight boilers burning and 150,000 horsepower churning.
Tom gave the instrument panel a last scan. Oil pressure, normal! RPMs, steady! The engine’s pulse raced through the rudder pedals, stick, and seat. The outside air was only forty degrees, but warmth slipped through the instrument panel and warmed the cockpit.
Behind Tom’s tail, a pack of Corsairs and Skyraiders sat with wings folded and propellers spinning. The noise of so many engines blended into one blasting drone. Helmeted pilots leaned from their cockpits and glanced forward. Some of their helmets were gold or white; others were navy blue with white symbols.
The deck boss hustled up to Tom’s right wing. He wore goggles and a yellow shirt over a winter coat. His pants were khakis, the mark of an officer. He was known as “Fly One.”
Tom’s eyes lifted—Here we go! The collar of Tom’s jacket—once black—was turning reddish at the edges with passing time and exposure to saltwater spray. Tom was becoming a veteran, even if he didn’t notice it.
Fly One motioned Tom forward. Tom eased off the brakes and the Corsair’s tires rolled slowly. Fly One backpedaled and stopped Tom parallel with the tower. The Corsair squealed to a halt. A drop tank and a napalm bomb shuddered beneath its belly, and eight rockets shook beneath the wings.
Tom pulled a lever and flaps lowered from the wings. He leaned from the cockpit and glanced forward. A little more than a football field away, the nose of the Leyte’s deck rose and fell in the waves. Sea spray leapt from the edge. Tom’s eyes fixed on the right corner of the deck. He knew to aim for that spot to launch on an angle so that if his engine failed and he crashed, the thirty-eight-thousand-ton carrier wouldn’t run over him.
Fly One raised a fist—Hold brakes! He twirled his other hand with a finger outstretched—Rev it up! Tom pushed the throttle forward. The Corsair’s engine growled and the propeller spun faster. A steady stream of white smoke blasted from the exhaust pipes on both sides of the engine.
Static filled Tom’s earphones. It was too hard to hear anything, so Fly One would launch him by hand signal. From nose to tail, the Corsair vibrated. The heavy prop blast wanted to lift the Corsair’s tail, so Tom tugged back on the stick to keep the tail glued down. His eyes focused on Fly One’s whirling hand.
Fly One glanced at the nose of the deck, gauging the sea. At the tip of the deck, the number 32 had been painted in white. The 32 rose and fell in the swells. Fly One needed to time his signal so that the plane would leap from the deck as the ship was rising—otherwise the pilot would fly straight into the waves.
The carrier nosed deeply down into a trough. Fly One snapped his hand forward and ducked to the deck—Go! Tom released the brakes and pushed the throttle. Furious noise filled the cockpit as 2,250 horsepower surged.
The Corsair barreled ahead, the right wing whipping over Fly One. The fighter blasted past the tower and the onlookers. Tom pushed the stick forward and the Corsair nosed up and onto her two front wheels. Tom spotted the right corner of the deck and steered for it. Properly aligned, he eased back on the stick and the plane dropped back to its tail wheel. If a pilot tried to launch from two wheels he’d drop into the sea from lack of lift.
The Corsair’s nose blocked Tom’s forward view as the deck slid past, faster and faster. The tires rumbled across the wooden planks and the windscreen shook. The Corsair crossed 60 miles per hour, 70, 75. The acceleration sucked Tom back into his seat. The Corsair bounced on her struts. The end of the deck was thirty yards away, twenty, ten. Come on, old girl! Tom thought.
Blurry faces in colored skullcaps whipped past the wingtip. At 80 miles per hour, the Corsair sprinted across the number 32. Whoosh! The deck slipped from beneath the tires and Tom felt his stomach lift. Blue stretched around him and white-capped waves slid beneath his wings. Clunk, clunk. The front landing gear flexed and Tom’s vision turned smooth.
To build speed, Tom let the Corsair cruise with her nose high and her tail low. Thirteen feet of propeller clawed the air and wind rustled the cockpit. With his right hand firmly on the stick, Tom reached with his left and raised the landing gear lever, then the flaps. The gear sucked up—clunk, clunk, clunk. Tom passed the stick to his left hand and cranked the canopy shut. The cockpit turned still and the engine’s hum steady.
When the speedometer needle ticked above 150 miles per hour, Tom banked to the right and pulled into a climbing turn to find Jesse.
—
The twenty-four Leyte planes climbed in formation through five thousand feet, on their way higher.
In the middle of the three squadrons, Tom peered leftward through his canopy. His eyes fixed on Jesse’s wingtip. Side by side, the two planes soared upward. Just beyond Jesse’s plane flew Cevoli and his wingman.
Tom held gentle backpressure on the stick. Reflections of the morning light floated across his canopy glass. Ahead, he saw ten Corsairs climbing across the sky, all ’33 birds led by the Leyte’s air group commander. Normally, the commander oversaw all four squadrons from aboard ship, but he wasn’t about to miss this mission.
As the armada punched through ten thousand feet, Tom sn
apped his rubber oxygen mask to his helmet. The Corsair began feeding him air and the sound of each breath filled his ears. An oxygen hose draped across his chest to the left and a radio cord dangled to the right.
At fifteen thousand feet, the planes of the lead squadron stopped climbing and lowered their noses toward the cloud-filled horizon. Cevoli’s flight leveled off, too. Jesse glanced over to Tom, glad to see his wingman in place. The sun shone brightly on Jesse’s plane; every rivet glimmered and every dent caught the light.
Tom’s eyes snuck to his rearview mirror. Behind him, the silhouettes of two Corsairs bobbed against the morning sun. They were ’32 birds, with white-tipped spinners. Beneath them motored eight Skyraiders, planes from ’35, the boys who had busted the Yalu bridge.
The numb crackle of static remained in Tom’s earphones. The flight was cruising under radio silence. An hour away lay the Chosin, buried somewhere beneath the clouds. Tom took in the sight of the twenty-three other planes around him. He had never seen so many white Ks against blue tails. Beneath his mask, he grinned with pride.
Uncle Sam’s fist was ready to strike.
* * *
*1 The young pilot had a point. A Skyraider had a baggage compartment that could accommodate passengers, and Batson could have climbed inside—or a Corsair pilot could have flown Batson out on his lap. During WWII, similar rescues had succeeded. In 1944, German flak shot down P-38 pilot Dick Willsie, who crashed in a Romanian field. Pilot Dick Andrews then landed and took aboard his friend, and the duo flew to safety in Russia.
*2 Red credited Charlie with leading him to his newfound faith in God. After Red had escaped the creek bed, he’d cracked open his pocket Bible and written in the inside cover: “Found my Lord, Nov. 28, 1950.” He still has that Bible today.
CHAPTER 36
BURNING THE WOODS
An hour later, around 10 A.M.
On Hill 1542 at the Chosin Reservoir
FROM THE SAFETY OF HIS FIGHTING POSITION, Red gazed with concern at the MSR (Main Supply Route) down below. He braced himself for the next mortar shell to fall.
At the base of the hill, the column had stopped in its tracks. Trucks and jeeps idled; their drivers leaned out to peer around their windshields. Farther along the road, smoke rose from a burning vehicle.
Sergeants paced beside the column shouting orders and Marines took cover by the roadside.
“I saw that last one come down, I swear it,” Red said. Jack nodded nervously. For fifteen minutes, Chinese mortar shells had rained down on the column. The enemy must have been short on mortars, because the shells were falling sporadically and inaccurately.
Still, a few had found their mark. A jeep was flipped over in a field, where it had run off the MSR. A truck had nosed into a ditch. Pink trails of blood lined the snowy road where Marines had dragged their wounded buddies to cover.
A whooshing sound fell from above. Red ducked but kept his eyes on the column. A dark streak zipped down and slammed beside the road. Crack! An orange explosion burst and a shock wave of black smoke stretched at ground level.
Red raised his head to see if anyone had been hit. The smoke dissipated and a small crater remained beside the MSR. Red shook his head—even the near misses were trouble. As long as the shells kept falling, the column wasn’t going anywhere.
Jack elbowed Red and pointed to the left.
“It’s true,” the youngster muttered.
Red’s eyes settled on the neighboring ridgeline and his face tightened.
In plain view, a stream of White Jackets snaked over the ridge. The Chinese balanced rifles on their shoulders as they stumbled through the snow. Others dragged Soviet machine guns on wheels. One Marine described the movement as resembling “picnic ants going across a big frosted cake.”
Jack clutched his rifle close. “They’re flanking us,” he whispered.
“No, they’re headin’ for the column,” Red muttered. He twisted a knob on the rear sight of his rifle to compensate for the new range—seven hundred yards. At least the snow had stopped falling.
“You fellas seeing this?” Red shouted to the neighboring Marines.
“Yeah, we’re tracking ’em,” came a reply.
“I’m drawing a bead,” reported another.
Red glanced around. The others had weapons aimed; all they needed was the order to fire. But Gunny Sawyer was away, reporting to the command post at the base of the hill.
To Red’s left, two Marine replacements had hidden from sight. One was a sergeant.
“Hey!” Red called.
The sergeant raised his eyes above cover.
“Can we fire?” Red asked.
“Are you crazy?” the sergeant said. “If you shoot, you’ll stir ’em up!”
Red glanced uphill at the crest. It was true: If the Marines fired now, they’d bear the wrath of the two thousand Chinese above. Yet on the neighboring ridge, the enemy kept streaming toward the column.
Red raised his rifle and took aim. He still believed Devans’s promise: If we stick together, we can’t be beaten. Red’s gloved finger tightened on the trigger.
Crack! Someone beat him to the first shot. Another rifle barked nearby, then another. Jack slapped his rifle onto the rocks and began snapping off rounds. Red blasted away too, and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Everyone was firing—machine gunners, army soldiers, even the scared replacements. The cracking fire spread outward to the other companies.
On the neighboring ridge, White Jackets tumbled forward, their bodies stirring the snow. Near misses kicked up puffs of white. The enemy stumbled back uphill and fumbled to drag their machine guns with them.
Red glanced behind himself, hoping to see the Marine column escaping on the MSR.
“Of all the times!” he muttered.
The road had been cleared, yet the column still idled in place.
—
Seven miles ahead, near the front of the column, wounded Marines slid painfully from truck tailgates as bullets zinged overhead. Drivers leapt from doors; men rolled from jeeps. Bullets pinged against metal, and tires popped and hissed. Halfway through the journey, the Chinese had struck.
Marines steered their hobbling buddies away from the enemy fire. Bandaged and bleeding, the wounded men crumpled into a ditch to the left of the road, beneath a barren hill.
The column was stopped on the high ground between two valleys. The lead vehicle, a lone tank, idled, so low on ammo that its crew was scrounging the column for more. Ahead of the tank, the empty road wound down toward a snowy valley. Behind the tank, the long train of men and vehicles dipped into another valley.
Furious enemy fire came from the right, where muzzles flashed across a snowy ridgeline. Five hundred White Jackets were up there, shielded by rocks and rises. From a patch of woods to the left, more Chinese troops poured onto the ridge. In packs, they scurried behind their firing comrades and expanded their lines.
Marines leaned defiantly from behind trucks and returned fire. Others rose from behind jeeps to launch rifle grenades. Everyone was fighting to buy time so that the able-bodied men ahead of the column could double back.
The badly wounded Marines never left their trucks. Beneath wooden ceilings they flinched and prayed as bullets raked the side rails. Shielded by a jeep, a colonel pulled his FAC officer close and told him to call for air support.
The FAC glanced at the low, stormy clouds and knew that air support was unlikely, but he snatched the radio handset anyhow. His radioman dialed in the American base at Hagaru. If any aircraft were nearby, the base’s dispatcher would know.
“This is Dark Horse 14,” the FAC announced himself. “We need close air support—it’s damned urgent!”
He looked to the heavens and waited for a reply.
—
High above the clouds, frustration lined Tom’s brow as he orbited behind Jesse. With his left wing tilted down, Tom scanned beyond his wingtip. Ten thousand feet below, storm clouds blanketed the earth, stretching in every di
rection.
Several planes ahead, Cevoli led the squadron orbit. The other two squadrons circled in separate patches of sky, everyone searching for a window to the ground. The American base had relayed the column’s call for close air support but the pilots were powerless to lend aid. They hadn’t glimpsed land since leaving the ship.
The storm over the Chosin seemed impenetrable. Even land-based Corsairs were turning back to their bases.
Again and again, Tom orbited, his eyes straining. He had set the radio so that he could listen to two channels at once—the Guard Channel for emergencies and the Squadron Channel to communicate with Cevoli. Both were silent.
Tom shook his head. Not a single mountain peeked through the blanket. The land below could be upstate New York in winter or San Francisco in the fog, it looked all the same. One thing was certain: A blind dive through the clouds would be suicidal over mountainous North Korea.
The radio squawked.
“Lead, I’m coming up.”
Tom’s eyebrows raised. The voice sounded familiar and it had transmitted over ’32’s Squadron Channel.
The voice spoke again. “That’s Fusen Reservoir, sir. I can make out the shape.”
Tom’s eyes opened wide. That sounds like Marty! But just as quickly, Tom’s brow furrowed. It can’t be. Marty had launched at dawn with the flight sent to the other side of Korea.
“Roger that. Join up,” a second voice said. That voice sounded a lot like Lieutenant Frank Cronin, the leader of the dawn flight.
Tom’s face twisted. He wondered if he was somehow picking up chatter from nearly two hundred miles away. Tom checked the seal of his oxygen mask and took a deep breath. Am I going nuts? he wondered.
“P.A.N.! P.A.N.! P.A.N.!”
The second voice had returned, this time across the Guard Channel for all to hear. Tom tuned his ears. “P.A.N.” meant: Pay Attention Now!